Chapter 2 - “Lock Yourself in the Restroom”
One month after my husband died, I discovered that grief could follow you through an airport.
It could stand beside you at the check-in counter while you tried to balance a diaper bag, a carry-on, an eight-year-old who was pretending to be brave, and a five-month-old baby who had no idea why his father had suddenly disappeared.
It could follow you through security while strangers complained about how slowly you were moving.
It could sit beside you at the gate.
And when you finally boarded the airplane, grief could settle into the empty place where your husband should have been.
My mother had been asking me to come stay with her since the funeral.
“Just for a little while,” she kept saying. “You don't have to make any decisions. You don't have to figure out the rest of your life. Bring the children. Come home and let me take care of you.”
At first, I refused.
Our house still smelled like my husband.
His coffee mug remained in the kitchen cabinet. His jacket still hung near the front door. There were shoes in the closet that I couldn't bring myself to touch.
Leaving felt wrong.
It felt as though going somewhere without him meant admitting he really wasn't coming back.
Then, one night, I woke at three in the morning because my son was crying.
I reached toward the other side of the bed automatically.
For one terrible second, my half-awake mind expected my husband's hand to reach back.
There was only cold fabric.
I sat in the darkness holding our son against my chest, and I cried so quietly that I thought no one could hear me.
Then my bedroom door opened.
Louise stood there in her pajamas.
She was eight years old and already learning how to hide pain because she was afraid adding hers to mine might break me.
“Mom?”
I wiped my face.
“I'm okay, sweetheart.”
She stared at me.
Children know when adults are lying.
She walked over and climbed beside me.
For several minutes, the three of us sat together.
Then Louise whispered, “Grandma said we can stay with her.”
“I know.”
“Maybe we should.”
That was the moment I agreed.
Not because I believed going to my mother's house would fix anything.
Nothing could fix what had happened.
But maybe Louise was right.
Maybe we needed somewhere we could breathe without every room reminding us of the person missing from it.
The flight was six hours.
I almost changed my mind when I saw that it was completely full.
I had booked the best seats available, hoping Louise could sit beside me, but a schedule change had rearranged assignments. By the time we reached the gate, the agent told me there were no pairs of seats remaining.
“I have an eight-year-old,” I explained. “And an infant.”
The gate agent studied the screen.
“I can place your daughter directly behind you. That's the closest available.”
Louise squeezed my hand.
“It's okay, Mom.”
I hated that she was the one reassuring me.
“You sure?”
She nodded.
“I'll be right behind you.”
So I accepted.
The moment we stepped onto the plane, I realized how difficult the next six hours might be.
Passengers were already cramming suitcases into overhead bins. Someone was arguing about seat assignments. A toddler several rows ahead was crying. Flight attendants moved quickly through the aisle trying to get everyone settled.
I carried my son against my chest while Louise followed behind me with her little backpack.
Our seats were near the middle of the cabin.
Louise was directly behind me.
The woman sitting beside my assigned seat was already there.
She was a large woman, perhaps in her late fifties, wearing a dark green blouse. She glanced up when she saw me.
Then she looked at my baby.
Her face tightened instantly.
Not concern.
Annoyance.
I smiled politely.
“Excuse me.”
She moved her knees just enough for me to squeeze past.
Before I had even finished arranging the diaper bag beneath the seat, she spoke.
“If he starts screaming, I am not sitting here listening to it for the entire flight.”
I looked at her.
For a moment, I thought perhaps she was joking.
She wasn't.
Her mouth was set in a hard line.
“I’m warning you,” she added.
Something inside me sank.
Before my husband's death, I might have responded differently.
I might have said that babies were allowed on airplanes.
I might have reminded her that nobody could guarantee six hours of silence on public transportation.
Instead, exhaustion won.
I forced a polite smile.
“I’ll do everything I can to keep him comfortable.”
She made an irritated sound and turned toward the aisle.
Behind me, Louise leaned forward.
“Mom?”
“Everything's fine.”
The words came automatically.
Everything's fine.
I had said those words dozens of times since the funeral.
When neighbors asked.
When teachers called.
When friends brought casseroles.
When people looked at me with that expression—the one that said they were terrified tragedy might be contagious.
Everything's fine.
Nothing was fine.
The airplane doors closed.
I buckled Louise into her seat before returning to mine, then secured my son according to the crew's instructions.
As the plane began moving toward the runway, I looked out the window.
My husband loved flying.
He always took the window seat.
He would point out meaningless things on the ground like a child.
“Look at that tiny truck.”
“That's an airport truck.”
“Yes, but from up here it looks like a toy.”
I could almost hear him.
My throat tightened.
The engines grew louder.
I pressed my lips to my son's soft hair.
The plane lifted.
The city became small beneath us.
For the first two hours, my son was wonderfully peaceful.
He slept against me while I watched clouds drift beneath the wing.
Louise occasionally leaned forward and whispered something through the gap between the seats.
“Mom, look.”
She showed me a drawing she had made on her tablet.
It was our family.
Four stick figures.
Then she had erased one.
Not completely.
A faint outline remained.
I looked away before she saw my face.
The woman beside me noticed.
“Can you tell her not to keep leaning forward?”
I turned.
“She's only showing me something.”
“Well, she's bumping my seat.”
“She isn't touching your seat.”
The woman sighed loudly.
I said nothing.
I reminded myself that six hours would eventually end.
At some point, she ordered tomato juice.
When the flight attendant handed it to her, she complained that there wasn't enough ice.
Later, she complained that the cabin was too cold.
Then too warm.
Then someone across the aisle opened the window shade and she muttered about sunlight.
I began to understand that my baby wasn't the problem.
The woman was determined to be unhappy.
Still, I tried to disappear.
I kept my movements small.
I barely spoke.
I didn't want conflict.
Not now.
I had spent the previous month signing forms, choosing funeral flowers, answering impossible questions from Louise, and waking up expecting to see my husband walking through the door.
I had no energy left for strangers.
Then, sometime during the third hour, my son stirred.
His eyes opened.
He made a soft sound.
I kissed his forehead.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
The woman looked at him immediately.
I could feel her watching.
He squirmed.
I checked his diaper.
Clean.
I rocked him gently.
He turned his head toward my chest.
I knew what he wanted.
“Shh,” I whispered.
I offered his pacifier.
He pushed it away.
Then he began to cry.
Not loudly at first.
Just the unhappy cry of a hungry baby.
The woman's shoulders stiffened.
I bounced him carefully.
The crying increased.
A few passengers looked around.
Heat crawled up my neck.
I knew I shouldn't feel embarrassed.
Babies cry.
But grief had turned my confidence into something fragile.
Every stare felt like judgment.
Every sigh felt personal.
“Come on, buddy,” I whispered.
He cried harder.
Then the woman turned toward me.
“I knew it.”
I didn't answer.
“I knew the second I saw you that this was going to happen.”
I closed my eyes for half a second.
“He's hungry.”
“Then do something.”
“I am.”
I reached into the diaper bag and removed the nursing cover.
My hands trembled slightly.
The woman stared.
I positioned the cover carefully, shielding myself completely.
Then I began feeding my son.
Almost immediately, his crying softened.
Within seconds, he was quiet.
Relief washed over me.
Until the woman beside me spoke again.
“Oh, wonderful.”
Her voice was loud enough that several heads turned.
I looked at her.
She pointed toward the nursing cover.
“I paid for this seat so I could listen to someone else's baby cry, and now I have to watch you feed him too?”
The cabin suddenly felt smaller.
“I’m covered,” I said.
“I can still see what you're doing.”
My face burned.
“I'm sorry. He's hungry. I'll be finished as soon as I can.”
The woman stared at me as though my apology had encouraged her.
“People with babies should stay home.”
Someone across the aisle looked uncomfortable.
Nobody spoke.
“What kind of mother brings an infant onto a long flight and then can't even calm him down?”
That sentence hit harder than it should have.
What kind of mother?
During the past month, I had asked myself that question every day.
What kind of mother couldn't make Louise stop crying for her father?
What kind of mother sometimes stood in the kitchen unable to remember why she'd walked in there?
What kind of mother secretly wished for five minutes where nobody needed anything from her?
I looked down at my son.
He was peaceful now.
“He is calm,” I said. “He only needed to eat.”
The woman shook her head.
Then she said the sentence I would remember long after the plane landed.
“Then take him into the restroom and lock the door.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“You heard me. Feed him there. Why should everyone else have to look at this shameful display?”
My entire body went still.
I suddenly wished my husband were sitting beside me.
Not because I needed him to fight my battles.
But because he would have leaned over and quietly said exactly what I needed to hear.
You're doing fine.
Ignore her.
I've got you.
But he wasn't there.
And for the first time since his funeral, surrounded by hundreds of strangers at thirty thousand feet, I felt completely alone.
Then a small voice came from behind me.
“Mom?”
I turned.
Louise was standing in the aisle.
Her tablet was held tightly against her chest.
May you like
And the expression on my eight-year-old daughter's face told me she had heard everything.
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